Elder's Bane
by Tubbyman
Summary: A Yautja Elder is forced out of retirement for one last hunt, only this time, his prey is an old friend.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The Ancient Hunter

He was among the best of the best, standing tall and proud even among his fellow elders. His pasty, yellow skin still showed signs of youth despite his age beyond reason, his one working eye locked in a gaze of boredom as he hovered over his console. He couldn't help but think back to the days of his glory, how excited he had been as a sucker learning the ways of the hunter. Indeed, those were the memories he had longed to repeat, for now that feeling was alien to him, save in his dreams.

He had been given a two-word name at his birth; Bpi-de Bakuub or "The Straight Spear's End" - Spearhead. That name alone meant that he would either become a hunter or die of humiliation. And become a hunter he had. He spent years learning to use Yautja hunting gear, Yautja martial arts and the Yautja code of honor. He took great pains to prove himself a worthy combatant in his sparring matches, and his reward was pain. They braided his hair, burning his scalp to make him bald on top and bunch his hair together along the sides. Despite the immense, searing agony, Spearhead hadn't shown the slightest sign of feeling it.

And then came the time of his blooding hunt. He didn't go into it with the honor of being the top of his class. Indeed, he was far from it. Spearhead was ranked eighteen in his twenty-Yautja class. Still, he hunted well and claimed two trophies of his own, which was rather impressive for an unblooded sucker. The top of the class had done little better, claiming only three trophies. From that hunt alone, his ranking within his class had risen from eighteen to eight, quite a large jump for the young Yautja.

As time went on, Spearhead continued to hunt and to be successful, but never really showed himself to be anything special. At least, he didn't for the first hundred years of his life. His second century allowed him to use the experience of his first to gain not only honors, but to become the best-ranked Yautja in his clan, even more so then the clan's leader. He always used a Naginata on his hunts now, and rarely did he come home with less then ten trophies from his worthy kills. There were none at this point who could count the kills he had not taken trophies for.

And then, in his extreme honor and prestige, he was offered leadership of his clan when the old leader died on a hunt. Instead, he passed the title along to the next-best ranked hunter in the clan(And a dear friend of Spearhead), another honored Yautja named H'dalk Guan - Night Fear. He was still interested in the hunt, after all. Not so for Spearhead. He had grown immensely skilled and indomitably capable, and fighting no longer offered a challenge. The worst thing that could happen to a Yautja had just happened to Spearhead: He had grown bored with the hunt.

And so, Spearhead decided not to hunt anymore. He skipped the tediousness of a Clan Leader's life and went straight into apprenticeship to an Elder. He learned quickly and became one of the Elder Council, a one-man judge, jury and lawmaker for all the clans.

And, as a direct result, he had spent many nights becoming bored to death staring at his console, looking over reported crimes and assigning hunting grounds to the various clans. Certainly it was not the most exciting of work, but if Spearhead was going to be bored anyway, he may as well have been bored while helping the clans in a larger way then a clan leader ever could.

The night edged on. Spearhead couldn't help but laugh at the request of several clans. The temperature on the home world of the ultimate Pyode Amedha, which they called Earth, was just right this year, among the hottest ever recorded, and they had requested to go there to hunt the most prestigious of prey. Spearhead had gotten at least a dozen requests for this hunting ground, and he knew that the clans requesting them were as good and as prestigious as his old clan. He couldn't pass up those others to give the job to his clan no matter how much he wanted to. And so he handed out his assignments as he saw fit.

All of them, that is, until one of them made him choke.

It was his own clan, or at least, what once was his own clan. They had requested the toughest and perhaps the most outlandish hunting ground they could possibly have asked for. Hunting on the 'Ooman' home world was one thing, but to request a hunt on that of the Kainde Amedha? It was more then laughable, it was incredibly foolish to even think. No clan was that prestigious. Nobody went to the Kainde Amedha home world, save the occasional crazed bad-blood, and even then it was only to have one last epic fight before death. Had they requested the planet of the Soft Meat, Spearhead would have considered it heavily and even given his recommendation at the next meeting of the council elders. Instead, they had been outlandish with their request, and punishment was in order. Spearhead assigned them a small, undeveloped world with only weak prey to hunt upon its surface. The temperature was cold, by Yautja standards. This clan would be cold, uncomfortable, bored, and without trophies at the end of this hunt. That would, perhaps, give them reason to request something plausible next time.

And then it was finished, and Spearhead moved on to his other duties. He looked over the bad-blood reports from the various clans and assigned hunters from those respective clans to bring down the small fry. The greater honorless he assigned to arbitrators of adequate skill.

But his duties didn't end there either. As an Elder, he had been placed in control of a Jag'd'ja atoll Mothership. He went over the administrative duties of that position, skimming through the reports of his subordinates and looking over the docked Man'daca Clan Ships that had docked for re-supply that day. He gave the orders that best suited those reports before going off to read more fully through one particular 'Special' file that caught his interest. He noted fully that the Man'daca of his old clan had docked with the station. If he knew Night Fear - and he was fairly certain that he did - he would be receiving an unfriendly visit from an old friend very soon.

And then, at long last, his duties came to an end. He retired from the place and went up to his personal chambers. As he looked about the room for what must have been the thousandth time since his arrival, he spotted his trophy wall once again. There was a time when that wall had been full of the skulls of his prey, but now... Well, now only eight trophies remained. At the top of the wall was the skull of a single Kainde Amedha drone. It was one of the two he had killed on his blooding hunt, and was the constant reminder that while he was an elder now, he was above all else a Yautja hunter. To the left and below was the skull of a Pyode Amedha. He remembered that kill very well, for this 'Ooman' had very nearly killed him. It was a trophy well worth keeping, for even today, the Elder would have had a challenge hunting him. Below and to the right of that was a Kainde Amedha Praetorian, which hung next to the skull of its brother, directly to the right of it. He had taken those two down at the same time toe-to-toe using naught but fist and blade. That battle had been the first sign that he was growing too much, and that the hunt was becoming as nothing to him. Above and to the right of that was another Ooman skull. This skull had not been kept because of its difficulty, but because of the reminder it imposed upon him. This Ooman had killed three fully blooded Yautja before it went down. Looking upon it was a constant reminder of the dangers of hunting on the Pyode Amedha home world.

These five trophies merely served as a decoration, forming a complete circle around the three trophies that made up the centerpiece of his trophy wall. This center was of three skulls, and all three of them belonged to Kainde Amedha queens. They were the ultimate prey, and killing even one with the clan about you was an immense honor. Spearhead had been the only survivor of the team that had taken down the first one, and so that trophy had gone to him. The other two he had taken single-handedly while the rest of his clan was hunting the hive's children. Those three trophies were all his, and they were the items that had added such honor to Spearhead's name that he was allowed to become an Elder without being an Arbitrator or even a Clan Leader first.

He was snapped out of his reminiscing by a sounding at his door. "Elder Spearhead," a younger Yautja told him, "You have a visitor." In reply, the Elder simply gave a nod of his head and a click of curiosity, wondering if his old friend had heard the word so quickly. Despite the question, he was not surprised when it was indeed Night Fear that entered his chambers.

The elder walked calmly back to his place and sat down, head cocked to the side in curiosity. What would his friend do about this decision he had made? He was very surprised when he stalked over to his table and sat very, very near to him without ever being bidden to. The Elder simply shook his younger friend's shoulder in greeting from across the table, and he was both shocked and appalled when the young Clan Leader shoved his in return. It was the clear indication of a challenge. In response, the elder leapt to his feet, his one good eye locked on this arrogant underling with a look of rage. His mandibles flared in anger, and he gave a great roar of disgust as he returned his challenger's shove, sending him flying a good many feet through the air. "Get out!" he demanded as two of his new clansmen rushed in, spears at the ready and plasma casters trained on the aggressor. They escorted him from the room even as Spearhead sat down at his console and scheduled a fight with all the proper protocols between himself and his old friend.

He did not sleep well that night. He had to wonder what had led him and his dear friend to this. Just a few short decades ago, when Spearhead was merely a blooded hunter and his friend an unblooded sucker, they had been nearly inseparable. He would take the young would-be hunter aside and show him tricks and techniques, helping him on his way to a blooding hunt. In return, Spearhead had earned a friend with whom to share hunting stories and, later on, a steadfast and trustworthy hunting partner to accompany him on even the most dangerous of hunts. How indeed had it come to this?

The question still egged at him as he stepped into the edge of the battle circle the next day. The rules of this match were simple. It would be a true test of skill, blade against blade with either combatant using his weapon of choice. Spearhead had his regular arsenal about him, two Glaives and his wrist blades. He could see across to the other side of the battle circle that Night Fear's preferences hadn't changed much either; a single, hand-held long blade with two edges rested naturally in his hand. And of course, his wrist blades adorned his right arm as well.

The two rose from their respective positions and awaited the command to begin. Spearhead couldn't help but notice how many from both his Jag'd'ja atoll and Night Fear's Man'daca had come to see these two legends battle it out. Some Yautja were there that may or may not have come from either vessel, for Spearhead recognized neither their appearances nor the marks on their foreheads.

And then, his gaze fell upon Night Fear. He was so different from the others. All sense of anticipation and excitement was gone from him; only an intense stare and a clear desire for blood could be seen on his face. Spearhead focused in as well at that point, entering a state of Zazin. The crowd disappeared, all external noise was gone, and all that existed in the Elder's world was his hated opponent.

He never consciously heard the command to begin. If it registered with him at all, it was on a subconscious level that Spearhead never noticed. What he did note was the movement of his opponent, coming straight for him with all the rage and fury he could summon, acting as though he were completely crazy.

Little did he know, it was too late for such tactics already. It did not take as long for the Elder to reach a state of Zazin as it did his younger counterpart. He was already in Mesh'in'ga - "The Battle Dreamtime." It was effortless for him to perceive the exact motions of his old friend, and he was quick to sidestep the charge. He followed up well, gripping his new enemy by a leg and a shoulder and thrusting his charging form out over the edge of the arena, yet he did not let go. He simply kept him there, making the intense hold look effortless before tossing him back into the ring and onto his back. Easily he could have thrown Night Fear from the arena at that point, and yet he had chosen not to for a very simple reason. Such a humiliatingly quick end would only serve to worsen relations between the two, which was the last thing Spearhead wanted.

Reading the result of that failed tactic, Night Fear immediately seemed to sober. He held his blade out wide to his right, though Spearhead didn't even draw his wrist blades out, and the two began circling. Despite the humiliation he had just suffered, Night Fear looked very optimistic about the battle. "Perhaps," he taunted, "I will let you live after giving you another two broken tusks!"

And that did register with Spearhead, loud and clear. Many Yautja at this new station had taken his two broken mandibles as a sign of the Elder's prestige and experience in battle, but to Spearhead and his old clan, the wounds had a completely different meaning. When he had first received his honors, Spearhead had been in another duel very similar to this one with a younger Yautja who had offended him deeply, though he couldn't remember exactly what the offense was at the moment. He had the suckling down and was prepared for the killing stroke. He even had his wrist blades raised in anticipation of the kill. And then, he felt the one thing that a hunter should never feel for its opponent: Mercy. That mistake had given the suckling the chance it needed, and it took the opportunity to lash out, severing Spearhead's left two mandibles and leaving a scar from his cheek to his eyebrow, putting his left eye out in the process. That scar and those two broken tusks were not a sign of experience at all, but rather a mark of shame.

And now, he feared everybody on this station would know it. He nearly made the mistake of allowing his blood to start boiling at the thought of it.

He never reached that fatal point, deciding to punish Night Fear by re-entering a state of Zazin and defeating him with as much humiliation as possible. He drew out his wrist blades and continued to circle his new enemy, now intent to force him to live with complete humiliation and perhaps a crippling wound to match his own. It was only just, and his honor demanded no less.

He was the first to make a move this time, dancing in for an almost taunting strike toward his opponent's head. Of course, the strike was never meant to succeed, so he was expecting the reprisal from the Hunter's blade. The Elder ducked under that swipe and used the momentum he gathered with his recovery for another, more serious strike. He never got the chance to get far with it, as a sharp edge was headed in toward his ribcage. He leapt up and over it, spinning as he caught the sword between his wrist blades, the twisting motion forcing the blade from his opponent's hand.

If Spearhead had wanted a quick victory, now would be the time to draw his glaives and put them through his opponent's heart, but a swift victory was not what Spearhead was after. A total, complete and humiliating victory was what Spearhead wanted, and he intended to get it. He ran at his opponent once more, swiping in with his wrist blades. His opponent was quick to counter the motion exactly, causing the two supermetals to clang loudly against each other. They both drew in behind their weapons, struggling to maintain superiority in what had become a fierce weapons lock. Spearhead had seen this time and time again in his opponents. The goal of such a lock was exclusively to overpower your opponent, throwing his defenses out wide and reversing your momentum to come back in for a swift killing stroke. Spearhead had seen it all before, and he had developed a method for stopping it as a result.

All at once, the tension from his side of the lock was gone. Night Fear's wrist blades flung out as wide as his eyes grew as Spearhead disappeared below the tunnel of vision he had established, then re-appeared only an instant later, leading with his bladed right arm. The weapon sailed toward Night Fear's face, detaching both his lower and upper right mandibles before continuing to make a deep cut on the Hunter's forehead. He tried to draw back from that blow, but Spearhead's left fist closed on his right eye too quickly, bashing him in the head once, then twice, then a third time to finally get him to recoil away from it. And then came the open foot to the back, forcing the hunter to his knees. And then came the expected finish, his enemy's wrist blades at his throat.

The challenge was over, and the result was obvious. Those from the Jag'd'ja atoll were chanting their praise of the Elder, whereas those from the Man'daca were hissing at their leader's defeat. The crowd was completely alive with excitement; nobody had seen that much skill packed into so little time in a great many years. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, the noise of the crowd died down. The challenge was over, and the result was obvious; death was not so uncommon a punishment in similar situations. There was to be no such thing today, though, and the Elder knew it, for doing so would be completely counter productive to his whole point. "If you did not like my decision," he stated for all to hear, "Then you should not have asked for that which could not be given." And with that, he planted another solid kick to the Hunter's back, forcing him down and on his face. With that, the Elder turned and began walking away, leaving his opponent to wallow in his shameful defeat.

Then, just a moment later, the elder hissed in surprise. He leapt forward, turning in mid-jump with his wrist blades defensively in front of him. He was shocked at what he now saw, for his beaten opponent was back up on his feet, sword in hand. He didn't have to see the wound himself to know the line of blood that had just been drawn across his back.

Then it all sunk in. This was no longer a duel, this was an all-out fight. Night Fear was beaten, and he knew it. Further aggression was not only against the rules, but also shameful and, above all else, ultimately disrespectful. How dare he, a simple clan leader, show such arrogance toward an Elder? He watched as the enemy's left hand went to join his right in a two-handed grip, answering the motion by sheathing his wrist blade and drawing one out of the one meter long poles that he kept on his back. He flicked a switch on it, activating the mechanisms inside of it. The pole sprang out a foot on either side, making itself into a three-foot-long, double-bladed Naginata, the greatest prize Spearhead had to show for all his prestigious acts in the past.

Weapon in hand, he advanced swiftly on his enemy. He was completely surprised when Night Fear lowered the blade in his left hand as if in surrender, then attacked with an identical one from above with his right. Where had he drawn that second blade from so quickly? As he re-directed the momentum of his weapon, the exact moment came into Spearhead's mind. No, he hadn't drawn a second blade. He had simply separated his double-edged blade into two single-edged blades.

This was a new trick, and Spearhead didn't trust it. He would have to be serious about this. He completely sidestepped the next attack, then flipped over the one that directly followed it. He drew the second glaive from his back and activated the switch on it as well, leveling the two weapons so that one end of each was pointing straight at his enemy. This was a style Spearhead had home-cooked himself, and was the same one he had used to kill the twin Praetorians all those years ago. It was an impressive style, masterfully and thoroughly crafted from the basics up, and it had never, _never_ been seen by another Yautja.

Despite the wound on his back and his immense age, the Yautja Elder moved with mechanical precision and lightning speed as he stalked in on his new type of prey. He met the expected counter-strikes from his opponent with the outward edge of his glaives, then swept in with his follow through on their back edges. He watched as his opponent deftly bent himself backward beneath the sideways strike. He found himself quickly moving his glaives back around as the counter strikes - a double-thrust toward his middle - came at him. As he knocked those blades aside, his own lower blades came at the enemy again. And again, the enemy gave the predictable dodging maneuver, so the Elder's foot was there to catch him in the stomach when he made it, knocking the wind from him and forcing him to his knees. His glaives came back around, spinning viciously.

Had the target of those spinning attacks been Night Fear, he would have been dead, but he was not. Instead, his blades flew from his hands, clattering against the floor as the spectator Yautja, once more frenzied over this bout of action, scattered to avoid the deadly weapon. And now, defeated a second time and at the point of two polearms, it seemed that death was the only option for Night Fear.

And yet, Spearhead did not kill him. He retracted his glaives and placed them carefully on his back, crossing his arms and staring hard at Night Fear, considering carefully what he should do with his broken opponent. He could not simply let this shame and dishonor pass. Finally, he made his decision. He drew his left hand back, then slammed the back of it into the side of his fallen opponents head. He was struck again and again and again until pale-green blood oozed from his wounded mouth and he fell to the floor. Even when he was on his face prostrate on the ground, the punishment didn't end. Spearhead beat his opponent, and he did so thoroughly enough that he would not soon forget it, ferociously enough that those gathered had to wonder if this beating was simply the Elder's chosen form of execution.

Finally, the pain and anger ended, leaving Night Fear slowly slipping into unconsciousness. The last words he heard before blacking out were those of his old friend and hated enemy. "Do not ask for what cannot be given," the Elder repeated, "And remember that if the shame is too much..." He heard a clattering sound, but it was faint, distant, and his vision had already gone too blank to see what was making it.

The Elder growled in disgust as he walked away. The metallic item he had thrown at his new enemy's feet was a knife used in Yautja rituals. Most commonly, it was used for the cleaning of Yautja trophies. If Night Fear used it, though, it would be for a different, direr purpose.

Spearhead scheduled a more proper punishment for the clan leader later that day. This offense had not been against any suckling of a hunter, after all, it had been committed against a Yautja Elder. The punishment already given would have been sufficient for the former, but never for the latter. Night Fear had changed, that much was obvious to Spearhead, but he didn't think that he had lost all of his honor. Because of that, he didn't think it necessary to confine his old friend. He wouldn't learn of what a mistake that was until later that night.

He couldn't focus on his other duties that afternoon. The drastic changes in his new enemy nagged at the back of his mind, making him challenge everything he had learned of the Yautja code. He hadn't realized how deeply he was connected to Night Fear until he realized that he was second-guessing a code of honor he had been raised in for his whole two and a half-century life because of him. He had to stop this now, had to sever all ties he had with his new enemy if he were to save himself from both mediocrity and boredom.

He retired to his chambers early that day, assigning those unfinished of his duties to his direct subordinates. He trusted them to do what he could not that day, and knew that they would take his early leaving as a victory celebration. The memory of the spectacle of his fighting would put them in a more then willing mood to finish the Elder's chores for him, and the Elder knew it.

So it was with great surprise that he was awakened later that evening by one of his subordinates. "Elder Spearhead," the younger hunter told him, "There is a problem that you may want to deal with yourself." The Elder sighed as he rose from his sleep, heading over to his console to check the file this one had wanted him to check out. He looked to it with exasperation at first, then with disbelief, then with complete surprise.

'Night Fear,' the Elder thought, 'What have you become?'


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Arbitration

They were the most elite team in the Yautja clans. The word 'Hunter' could no longer describe them, for they were beyond the scope of capturing and killing game animals. They were armed to the tooth and armor clad, showing battle scars that told stories of epic fights, which had become the every-day occurrences that packed their lives. These were the Yautja about whom stories were told to scare young suckers into obedience to both their mothers(Although not much encouragement was needed there) and their elders. These were the Tusk and Fang Arbitrators.

The Tusk and Fang had a Man'Daca of its own, and it had enough elite Yautja hunters to fill it up in almost the same density as a small clan could. Each of the Yautja on board had achieved honors, and each of them had left the life of a hunter to become the bloody hand of justice exercised by Clan Elders. To become a part of the Tusk and Fang was no small task; first and foremost, each prospect must have great honors and a great deal of hunting time on the Ooman home world. The Tusk and Fang was lightly based around Ooman culture, realizing the deadliness of these odd creatures and incorporating it into their style and hunting methods. Exemplifying this was the fact that every Tusk and Fang Arbitrator wore a mask that resembled the face of an Earth creature, which the hunter perceived to have something in common with. They were led by five, and the five had come to the Jag'd'ja Atoll to answer a most important call.

The leader of the Five was the most obvious among them. His mask took the form of what appeared to be a strange type of Pyode Amedha, what he himself called a 'Jackal,' and was the feature by which he was most easily identified. A strange type of H'sai-De blade was hung across his back. He did not use a plasma caster, showing far more favor to flame casters, of which he had two on either shoulder. Both sides showed throwing smart-disks in plain sight, and both of his wrists were decorated with wrist-blades, quite a rare display of achievement indeed. His true name did not matter; he was called Kweide – "Sly One" – by his peers and colleagues, for his strategic prowess was second to none.

Accompanying him was a team of four that were his most trusted subordinates. They were diverse in both appearance and talent, having different methods of hunting and combative style. They were looking quite impressive standing there in half-moon formation behind their leader, faces hidden behind animalistic hunting masks and fidgeting with destructive weapons that had become almost as much legend as their users had.

The smallest among them was the most easily recognizable. His mask was in the shape of close cousins of the Oomans, what The Sly One referred to as an 'Ape.' He was lightly armed and wore only the minimum amount of armor, the shin and knee guards typical to all hunters and arbitrators absent in favor of easier and more agile movement. Two small blades rested in their sheaths, which in turn rested upon his waist. Upon his right leg, a miniature spear-gun could be seen, but other then his wrist blades, no other weapons decorated his body. He was called S'teg-in, "Swift and Deadly."

The one who stood out the next most was by far the largest of them, standing as tall as a Yautja woman and built with twice the muscle mass. He was a dreadfully fearsome, deathly frightful looking Yautja, his dreadlocks whipping about with the twitching of his head, decorated by the face of a "Boar." His armor was heavy, covering his shoulders, chest, legs and forearms completely. He had a plasma caster on his left shoulder and wrist blades mounted on both arms, both of them lengthened beyond the norm. Other then those, only one weapon was to be found: An enormous double-headed axe was slung across the arbitrator's back. He was Lul'ij-bpede, "Crazy One."

Appearing fourth in formation among the five was a Yautja whose facemask was as that of a tiger. He was a peculiar one in that he had no weapons apparent on him – no plasma caster, no spears, not even wrist blades. His armor was just as a regular Yautja hunter, save that his forearm gauntlets extended to form clawed, metallic gloves about his fingers. He was of average height and build, but stories of H'chak'mode, "The Merciless One," told of his uncontested prowess and brutality in bare-fisted combat.

The last of them was called Mei'hswei. His height and build were impossible to discern; from head to foot, the Yautja with the mask of a serpent was covered in armor. Again, no weapons were obvious with him, although nine strange pod-like structures could be seen running down his back, closed off at the top by an opening and closing valve. Another set of the strange pods decorated his side, curving toward his front and sealed off with the same kind of strange valve, although these pods on his side were decidedly smaller then the ones across his back. The outside of his legs were also peculiar, decorated with what appeared to be an elaborate design of spikes and spines running down to the ankle across several notches of metal. An experienced Yautja would have recognized this weapon set for the deadly, destructive power it commanded, but to all others, the weapons that "Brother" commanded remained a mystery.

The five had been waiting at the loading docks for nearly a full hour. The Sly One knew that it was his own fault, for he had arrived early. He knew that when an Elder of the Clans called you, you didn't fool around. He had rocketed toward this mother ship at full speed on his modified Man'Daca, faster then most ships of its class by a long, precious amount of time, for its engine had been completely overhauled with state-of-the-art technology. In fact, there was no such thing as a part of this clan that wasn't advanced to state-of-the-art levels. They were, after all, the best of the best, the Arbitrators of the Tusk and Fang.

* * *

He remembered this hunt well. The queen was powerful, so much so that even Yautja women couldn't hope to imagine what terrors such deadly strength could unleash. Spearhead knew, though, for he had faced this kind of prey before. He quickly drew one of his glaives, circling the mother of the hive carefully. "Move well or die" was the hunter's prayer, and he had learned it well. It would hold especially true here.

The combat started all at once. The queen lashed out against him, playing more defensively then most of her species would. Her long, spined, deadly sharp tail lashed out over her head and straight for Spearhead. Knowing that the queen's attacks were too powerful to block, Spearhead did what he had done all those decades ago, ducking under the tail and striking up at it as the weapon flew above his head, his glaive striking across it and leaving a small scratch on its thick carapace. He followed the strike by continuing with his momentum, spinning out to the right and rising to his feet, his combative Hiju strong and reactive.

The queen's face was no longer her own. It was the face of a Yautja that was splashed with burns – burns that Spearhed knew well. They had come from the blood of a Kainde Amedha Praetorian, the first of the greater Kainde Amedha that Night Fear had ever defeated. This was the face of his old friend and dearest companion. The sight of that face on the Queen's body startled him greatly.

Suddenly, he wasn't fighting that queen anymore. He was standing on the sidelines, watching himself fight the queen which had taken the face of his friend. "Night fear!" he called out, and though he tried to run to him, he could not move from the spot. "Night fear, why do you attack me?" he cried, watching as he ducked under another tail slash, striking up with an attack that this time bit into the muscle of the Queen's weapon. 'Don't do it,' Spearhead begged, for he knew what happened next in this battle.

His wish didn't come true. The Night Fear – Queen hybrid hissed its displeasure at the cut on its tail, then started charging toward the prey that it knew to be hunting it. Spearhead watched his plasma caster charging, gathering energy into itself as the deadly adversary approached. When the Night Fear – Queen was right on top of him, he unleashed the blast, hitting it directly in its right shoulder. The blast didn't stop the momentum of the attacker, but threw it off, sliding hopelessly to the left with its arm blown away at the shoulder, hanging on by a meager thread of its carapace. As the queen smashed and fell toward the wall, Spearhead leapt with all of his strength in the opposite direction. "Night Fear!" he cried as he watched the scene unfold. "We don't have to fight like this!"

And then he was back in his own body, twisting about to watch the Night Fear-Queen struggle back to its feet. Its head whipped around as he backpedaled, no longer perceiving the hybrid as his friend. They were mortal enemies, and one of them was going to die in this fight. The hybrid opened its mouth to scream, but all that came out was a light beeping noise. Surprised, Spearhead stopped in his tracks, tilted his head to the side and clicked his mandibles in curiosity. The hybrid kept its stare on him as it opened its mouth and beeped at him again, this time louder, then again, and again, ever louder and louder…

Spearhead awoke from his strange dream to the noise of his door alarm's beeping. "Who is it?" he groggily demanded, putting his feet to the floor and rising to walk toward his sitting place. The door opened, revealing one of Spearhead's subordinates. His head was lowered respectfully as he approached, and the Elder bade him sit down. The subordinate quickly obeyed the suggestion, taking his place and looking across to the Elder that he served so faithfully.

"Elder Spearhead," the young Yautja called as he began his report. "The guests you ordered to report to this station – they have been waiting at the docks for nearly a whole hour."

"Then they are early," Spearhead called, checking the time on his console just to be sure of it. "Very well, tell them that I will receive them shortly." He dismissed the subordinate without a word when that was said and out of the way, and he went to don his own full suit of battle armor. This was going to be one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life, and he now recognized that his dream had been reflecting this to him. His inner ties to his first true friend were still too strong for him to operate in this mission as objectively as he wanted to. Still, he couldn't just give this mission to anybody else; he knew that Night Fear was too skilled to be taken down even by the Tusk and Fang alone. After all, one didn't simply get a nicnkame like Paya - "God" - on limited tallent.

No. If he sent the Tusk and Fang in against Night Fear, he might soon be receiving their heads in a nice, pretty, decorative basket. That wasn't something he wanted to have on his shoulders. He would go with them, allow them to take down the bad blood's underlings and go after the top dog himself. It was the only way this mission would be done correctly… Which was the only way Spearhead knew how to do a mission at all.

He thought heavily on Night Fear as he walked down the halls, donned in his impressive battle armor. If only he had stayed and faced his judgment, he would have been allowed to keep in control of his Man'Daca and all the hunters aboard it. As it stood, he was a Bad Blood, and he would be hunted to the death by not only Spearhead, but the Tusk and Fang Arbiters as well. Truly, Night Fear was a changed hunter… If he could even call himself a hunter any more. Spearhead drew in the deepest sigh he'd drawn in quite some time.

Then, before he was consciously aware that he had arrived at the docks, he was standing before the Yautja hunting party donned in their odd masks. He had on an impressive battle array himself, still wearing the mask of his old clan, typical in every way save that it was far more linear and angular in its design then the almost oval shape of a typical hunting mask, and it had two small, spike-shaped studs on its left temple. His shoulders and upper chest were donned in metallic plates as well, each shoulder with a spike-shaped stud that matched his mask. His hips were adorned with larger-then-usual side-plates to accompany the usual metallic Speedo that a normal hunter wore, and his legs were covered from toe to knee by a metallic boot. His forearms had the typical show of armor, stretching from elbow to wrist. His weapons arsenal was extensive, from a full-sized spear gun to a smart disk to a net gun, of course he wore a plasma caster as well, and his trademark weapons. Unlike the ornamental dueling staves, though, these weapons were the full three-meter size, a whole three times what their little cousins were in length.

"Elder Spearhead, you are dressed for battle," the Sly One commented. The surprise in his voice betrayed his thoughts; he expected nothing more then a mission briefing from the Elder.

"I am going with you," Spearhead replied. That declaration had four of the five reeling back in surprise, and The Crazy One even gave out an accompanying yelp of shock. Only the Sly One remained objective, untouched, completely calm, almost as if he had expected the Elder to say this. He finally gave an accepting nod of his head; what else could one do against the word of an Elder?

"What, then, are our orders?" Sly One asked. It was no surprise that he didn't know yet; the nature of these orders was far too important to send over a potentially hackable channel. It was ears-only stuff.

It was about to get real. No more pretending, no more lying to himself, no hoping his dear friend would come back around. It was the point of no return, and that Spearhead hesitated to cross it was clear to everybody present. He took a moment to center himself and forced himself to go on. "The clan leader, Guan H'Dalk, and all his clan are hencefourth declared Bad Blood. The Tusk and Fang will accompany me on the last hunt to send the betrayers to the Black Warrior."

An entire clan? It was shocking. It was not unusuall for a strong hunter to warrant multiple hunters, and sometimes even a group of hunters would revoke their honor and require hunting in packs, but never before had an entire clan been declared bad blood! There was silence. Had they heard correctly? They couldn't ask, that would be disrespectful and perhaps even challenging. Nobody understood the order, where it had come from, why it was happening now of all times.

Nobody, that is, save for the Sly One. He knew that this was a necessary evil, and he knew exactly why. He never went into any situation unprepared, and so he had researched recent events on the station. He knew of Night Fear's disobedience, and he knew that he would be declared Bad Blood, but even he hadn't expected the entire clan to be declared bad blood. It made sense, though, if they were still following the commands of their bad-blood leader instead of keeping their honor by confining him. The orders of a clan leader could never superceed the orders of an Elder! He was able to accept the orders far quicker then the others that were with him. He bowed his head slowly to the Elder. "The Tooth and Fang will see it done, Elder Spearhead," he swore, and the other four quickly bowed with him, more to follow their commander's lead then to accept the orders themselves. They would need a while to take everything in.

Not another word was said. The six master hunters turned and walked to the Man'Daca, ready to undertake their most important mission. It would take planning, praparation and long hours of tracking to find them no matter which planet they planned to go to. The clan of Night fear was also a large clan, so the fighting would be fierce and long. They would be outnumbered and outgunned, but their enemies didn't know how outmatched they would be...


End file.
